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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24313411">the brightest beam of light</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyrilu/pseuds/jaqhad'>jaqhad (kyrilu)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars: Aftermath - Chuck Wendig</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Implied/Referenced Torture, Interrogation, M/M, Pre-Rogue One</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 03:55:42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,280</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24313411</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyrilu/pseuds/jaqhad</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Sinjir wonders why these traitors of the Empire are always these sad beautiful boys.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sinjir Rath Velus/Bodhi Rook</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>the brightest beam of light</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>'i want my fave to torture my other fave' is how i express my love</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sinjir wonders why these traitors of the Empire are always these sad beautiful boys. Rilo Tang, with his restless thieving hands and plaintive cries; and now, Bodhi Rook, long dark haired, fearful doe-eyed, his fingers trembling on the table between them. Oh, he’s trying to be brave; he’s <em> trying</em>, but Sinjir had seen him standing outside, rain-streaked, Eadu’s pilots and troopers and technicians and scientists lined up for the visiting loyalty officer’s inspection, and there was that look, the one he was trained to recognize:</p><p>Bursting, burning <em> wildness. </em></p><p>Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe this is yet another stim-addict, swiping one too many packs to keep himself alert and awake during cargo runs. Maybe this is a fool who becomes too talkative when he’s drunk, letting slip Imperial routes in spacer bars while eager pirates pay for the next round and the next -- Sinjir would, perhaps, betray the Empire for some masterfully mixed Yuzzum wine. </p><p>Yet in every twitch, Sinjir sees the weight of secrets on Bodhi’s shoulders. Truth be told, Sinjir has no damn clue what this laboratory on Eadu is researching and developing, and they all blur into each other in the end. One Tarkin Initiative project then the next: blasters, droids, ships, whatever shiny thing that fits into the Empire’s sleek well-ordered machine. </p><p>Not that he’d understand the intricacies of engineering or what-have-you. Sinjir’s scientific speciality is anatomy. </p><p>“Ensign Rook,” he says, flickering a curved smile at the pilot. “I’m sorry for suddenly pulling you off-duty. I know we loyalty officers seem rather scary, but I promise you, we’re not.” He keeps his tone soothing, as if speaking to an injured tooka.</p><p>Rook’s eyes dart to Sinjir’s, and he licks his lips. “I know that it’s protocol, sir. But I don’t understand why you’d ask for me. I’m just -- just a pilot.” </p><p>Yes, Sinjir had glanced over his datafile. Born and raised on Jedha. Joined up when he was old enough, receiving middling scores from flight academy, then assigned routine transport duties. Not any notable demerits or red flags that signal discontent or disloyalty, but, well, that's Sinjir’s job to figure out.</p><p>Bodhi Rook. Remarkably unremarkable. Fire in his eyes like a smothered sun. </p><p>“Your flight performance isn’t the issue at hand here,” Sinjir assures him. “Is there anything that’s been bothering you lately, Ensign? Anything off? I’m an agent of the Imperial Security Bureau, and it’s my duty to ensure that everyone’s feeling secure.”</p><p>Rook tucks a strand of hair behind his ear. A nervous gesture? “I don’t know anything about security, Officer…?” </p><p>“Rath Velus,” Sinjir says. “But you can call me Sinjir, Bodhi.” The Empire emphasizes the importance of rank, but for loyalty officers, overfamiliarity is always a fun direction to go. Sid Uddra had taught him that during training: <em> Sinjir, never forget this pain. </em></p><p>Bodhi picks it up. Clings to it like a drowning man to a lifeline. “Sinjir. I don’t want to keep wasting your time, Sinjir. I’m sure you have more important things to do than talk to me.” </p><p>“Don’t think so little of yourself,” Sinjir says. “We all contain galaxies beneath the surface, whether you’re a cargo pilot, a loyalty officer, or a radar technician. Perhaps not stormtroopers, though. I’ve been summoned to crack them, but it turns out, they’re not <em> really </em> traitors who can’t bear to blast rebels, but terrible shots.” </p><p>Unbidden, Bodhi smiles, a small nervous smile. It’s a nice smile. If Bodhi was a man that Sinjir saw at a bar, he’d probably be already figuring out the best way to make him blush.</p><p>Making himself banish the thought, Sinjir continues: “I don’t think this is anything grand or horrible. I think you’re a good man, a good pilot, and if anything’s wrong, it’s like those hapless stormtroopers. A mistake. A flaw on an otherwise shining gem. For example, you’ve got a bit of a gambling problem, don’t you?” </p><p>It was another thing that had been in his file.</p><p>Bodhi blinks. “No more than anyone else. We guess who’s going to win the next fathier prix or racing tournament. Or we have weekly sabacc night. It’s not getting in the way of my work.” </p><p>“Of course not,” Sinjir agrees. Inwardly, he's disappointed. This would be so much easier if Bodhi was a petty criminal in debt, pilfering from Imperial funds to repay loans. No, of course this wouldn’t be so easy; this is something else. “But I wager that means you have sharp eyes and you’re open to taking risks. What have you seen with those keen eyes, Bodhi? Or what risks have you considered taking?” </p><p>Bodhi draws in a breath. It’s barely perceptible, but Sinjir catches it, and he feels something dark curl in his stomach. He’s heard that sound countless times. It’s the real beginning of the chase, the hunt, a shivering thwip cornered and terrified. </p><p>Sinjir stands up from his chair, and he crosses to the other end of the table. In the dimness of the room, the white of his uniform looks almost blinding. He puts a gentle hand on Bodhi’s shoulders, and he says, soft, “I don’t want to hurt you, Bodhi.” </p><p>Bodhi swallows. “I’m not a traitor, sir.” </p><p>“But you know something,” Sinjir says. “You know something, or you’ve seen something, or you’ve done something, and it scares you. I don’t want you to be scared, Bodhi. I told you. Everything and everyone should feel <em> secure.</em>”</p><p>“You’re going to hurt me.” Bodhi sounds bewildered and so very young. “No matter what I say, you’re going to hurt me.” </p><p>Sinjir’s hand slides to touch Bodhi’s chin. Then, his throat. And Bodhi’s doe dark eyes flare, that same blazing defiance Sinjir saw in the rain.</p><p>Bodhi says, tremulous, “I’m just a pilot, and I'm no one important<em>. </em> Do whatever you want. Get it over with, and you’ll see. You’ll see.” </p><p>And Sinjir starts.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Sinjir still doesn’t know why the Imperial Security Bureau quartermaster insists on outfitting loyalty officers in dove white uniforms. It stains miserably, and it’s incredibly gauche to emerge from interrogation rooms splattered in red, as if he’d wrestled with a ruby wine bottle.</p><p>Wine. That sounds very, very nice right now. No, definitely something stronger.</p><p>“Don’t you <em> know</em>?” Bodhi Rook had rasped, shuddering, as Sinjir held him down and carved up his back with a vibro-knife. “Kyber crystals are s’posed to be holy. Sacred. And we’re making a planet-killer with them. It’ll kill millions, billions. Entire worlds gone.” And he’d broken into shaking sobs, the fire going in and out of his eyes like dancing flames, and Sinjir had stroked his hair and told him, <em> There, you see? That wasn’t so hard.</em></p><p>A planet-killer. That sounds like something out of a holo. It can’t be real, can it? Bodhi certainly believes it’s real -- Sinjir can tell from reading the intonation in his voice and feeling the throb of his pulse -- and, honestly, it’s something the Empire <em> would </em> build.</p><p>Poof. Bam. Bang. Imperial enemies dissolving like nectrose in water. None of this sharp knife, finger-breaking slowness that Sinjir’s accustomed to.</p><p>Sinjir hasn’t fully determined if Bodhi has a collaborator, but it’s more than likely. He <em> is </em> a lowly cargo pilot, and someone higher up must be whispering in his ear. Trying to get him to defect to disrupt shipments or warn the rebels or some other enterprising nonsense.</p><p>With a sigh, Sinjir fiddles with his datapad in his hand. He had to call a service droid to take Bodhi to the base medcenter, because the man had fainted sometime after his brief confession. Tomorrow, Sinjir will resume questioning, and he’ll inform Director Krennic about the rats in his laboratory…</p><p>For now, though, a drink. </p>
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